


Zombiekiller In A Bind

by Coffin Liqueur (orphan_account)



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Double Penetration, Forced Orgasm, Game: Resident Evil 4, Orifice Invasion, Other, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, implied oviposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Coffin%20Liqueur
Summary: Leon's first face-to-face encounter with Las Plagas ends up going to some pretty revealing places.
Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Las Plagas
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Zombiekiller In A Bind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/gifts).



The Ganado’s head was gone, and in its place pulsed and twitched a mass of cords and bubbles of flesh and globular eyes.

Leon froze to the spot - feet planted.

Another tendril of flesh lashed free of the stump of the man’s neck, and then another. One more spun free, long - tipped with a long and edged scythe of bone or keratin.

_Fantastic._

His heart raced in the face of the unknown, as it’s always wont to do, even as he started to begin thinking he understood. A _parasite_. A body-jacking parasitic outbreak overriding the consciousness of live hosts - that’s what he was dealing with here.

He locked his teeth, raised his pistol, and opened fire. One clean shot and another. Missed the eyes, as far as he could tell with the damn thing moving so much. Another shot.

It missed cleanly as the fleshy mass snapped back, winding up with its --

\-- Leon’s mouth dropped open.

A split second moment of decision and a break in time - he threw his weight forward at a diagonal; rolled as he physically heard the keratin scythe slice through the air with a swordsmanly strike, felt the wind in its wake sweep above him. He looked up. Confirmed - he had gotten himself further up the ravine behind the thing. He ran - _get distance first_.

\-- And from around a subtle bend in the path and behind the stones around it stepped another Ganado.

Reflex _seized_ him to haul his weight back, with a jump in his chest. He landed feet-planted again; threw a look back over his shoulder. The mass of flesh continued to twitch and writhe and struggle against or toward who-knows-what as its host body took one step forward at him. And ano - 

\- he was probably safe for a handful of seconds. Quick breath to stabilize. Up came the pistol again. Just as the Ganado started to raise his own axe, Leon squeezed the trigger twice.

With two bursts of sound and blood, the top of the man’s head blasted open.

He, too, took another step. Then another.

Leon’s next heartbeat rushed and rippled the blood in his veins the instant before another cord of flesh and sinew began to wind its way out of the open cavity he’d created. It wrapped itself around the back of the man’s neck to _climb_ its way out. Another bloody mass squeezed and slopped its way into view out of the hole like an octopus covered in teratomas, withdrawing another bladed whip of an arm with a slice through the air.

He took another look behind him. The body of the first parasite had advanced to only feet away.

As he looked front-facing again, he gritted his teeth, took a breath, and steeled himself to sprint. He threw his weight at the gap between the Ganado and the stone wall, a tiny grunt hitching in the upper back of his throat, and -- 

\-- his balance spun forward-wheeling around him and his insides twisted as his legs were pulled out from under him. He tucked in and tucked his head down and flung his forearms up in time for them to break a frontal _slamming_ fall into the ground.

He rolled over by reflex, bringing his gun up - found the burning stab of a streetwise, gratifying sort of passing dread in his chest justified as one kick met with the resistance of a pull; brought into view the gleam of one red tendril wound around his ankle. He winced in the moment - the sting of both urgency and reflexive indignation - and popped off a shot. _Squish_. His fingers began to tense around the grip and trigger as he steadied another shot.

_Slice._

Both his arms whipped to the side, hands stunned open by a white-hot flashing shock of heat. He hissed some of that heat off - heard his gun clattering to the stone a ways to his left and rode that hiss into steam power as he rolled back over, pulse racing to urge him to race in its patterpatterpatter, army-crawling toward a just-shining dark-metal shape on the ground with his right arm seeping blood from a rip in the sleeve of his jacket, _one of their scythes got him, shit, at least the damn thing didn’t take the arm off…!_

_Yet --_

His sense of balance churned again as he was pulled back by both legs now - gravel scraping under him arms-to-stomach.

His eyes widened - then narrowed. A whole-face determined bracing as he rolled again. The tendrils crossed over each other leading from his ankles to the body of the parasite; he reared back to pull, got the thing to barely stumble toward him; he lanced a kick with both boots at the body heading in his direction. A twist of his face over still-gritted teeth when -- no good, it adapted, twined its tendrils further and higher up his legs to fix itself dead center of the kick while the body of the Ganado thudded as if in a sudden faint to the ground underneath where he’d aimed.

_It’d given up its host, fuck -- ‘s it gonna try to make him next…?_

He flipped to his side now. One-two checking - route to his gun assessed, position of the other --

\-- the other Ganado had come down to a kneel right behind and above him while he’d been trying to kick off the parasite; he realized that in that hot-dread kinda instant just before he fully processed it, looking left and instantly recoiling when he found himself face-to-face with two unaligned yellowed eyes on a shape that glistened and pulsed and pulsed. Winced as it caught the side of his face with a lash of one of its tendrils - no pain yet _too close too close too close -- !_

Tried to thrust himself backward.

Mistake; he should have rolled.

The first parasite had essentially bound his legs together by this point - keeping them stiff and close together. Too little control to be able to put much thrust _into_ it.

And the second parasite was still close, that tendril still sweeping against the side of his face as another one landed against his opposite ear, and wrapped around the back of his head, and began to coil around his neck.

As the first tendril followed a lash across the corner of his mouth with a probe, one of Leon’s heartbeats hit like an outward stab.

_No, you don’t…!_

He dropped back to the ground fast and hard, rolled fully back onto his back, and just as he’d been intangibly half-expecting, the parasite traveled right with his face - another dull thump just above him.

_Don’t get cocky -- you’re not getting_ me…!

He grabbed to fling the tendril at his mouth aside with one hand; the one around his neck coiled tighter. With his other hand, he grabbed at the body of the parasite; squeezed, scratched, tried to punch its nails in, found surfaces slipping under his fingertips with every attack. When he tried to get ahold of the tendril around his neck to pull it looser, the first one returned to feel at his mouth again, twisted in a way to almost tease his mouth open. He hacked, once, at the stale copperiness of blood hitting the tip of his tongue and billowing into his sinuses at its first probe inside; he bit, and yet again, whatever it was made of sprung back, rubbery. It slicked in further, enough to press his tongue flat, and he choked out of spite and instinct, pulling and biting at it again and squeezing and pulling at the body drawing closer to his face with another deeper wrap of that second tendril and squirming and writhing and _kicking_ again to _shake_ it off -- 

\-- two of the arms of the first parasite were now holding his legs fairly open, he noticed. To reduce any concentration or tightness of his struggling, he figured, or make itself room to move; it had gotten higher upward, now, with one of its tendrils slipping up his back.

A curse burned like the press of a cigarette cherry in the front of his brain as he struggled regardless - spine twisting from side to side and arms levering every which way. The parasite didn’t loosen. Its arm pressed past his tongue for a first probe into his throat - he retched, thrashed and bit again, giving up the tendril at his throat again to yank at it, you’re not getting me…!

The original parasite curved the tendril on his back downward. The end of it flicked at the waistband of his pants.

Leon’s eyes widened. His throat yawned open of its own accord in a silent gasp - he hissed as the parasite holding its head slipped its arm deeper in. He’d frozen in a realization, for half a second. Deer in the headlights.

From flicking at his waistband to sweeping under it. His body jolted at the touch to skin that wasn’t exposed. The stabs of his heartbeat sharpened.

The thing _was_ holding his legs open to make room for itself to come up higher. It wanted to get inside him, too, and it _didn’t care how it had to do it._

Every one of his limbs flailed; he twisted and tumbled on the ground, kicked against at at tendrils still grasping at his legs, limited levers of movement, wincingly bit to stop the arm in his mouth at every pause in its sliding down his throat, inevitably releasing it on attempts to gasp for breath around it - said breaths had become searing hot behind the mask of his face; his eyes had begun to water.

The tendril in his pants slipped between his legs from behind. It grazed the opening it was looking for. Leon’s shoulders tightened and shuddered. His body clamped down, and, unceremoniously, it pressed inside him anyway with one solid forceful slither that bent his back and had him moaning around the tendril in his mouth like wood creaking in the wind. It writhed deeper, in tandem with the one in his throat.

The hand he’d had grasping to loosen the tendrils holding his head fell loose. He punctuated one desperate full body lash against the invasion with a _strike_ of his fist to the ground.

_Fuck… You’re not getting me…!_

A thought that echoed more quietly now.

_You’re not getting me…!_

The tendril working its way up between his hips bent in a way that brushed against something, as it writhed deeper - another burn around a point in his brain white-hot; he jumped, his sound against the tendril in his throat hitching slightly.

It did it again. He jumped and shuddered again - eyes unfocused at the _nothing_ in front of him, now, but the second parasite, all but against his face.

The most dead, bleak wry thought _that that’s one way to succeed as a parasitic vermin. Get your victim off. Buy ‘em dinner…_

...That last part was _absurd_.

The second parasite pressed flush to his lips. The first began to thrash where it had worked its way inside him; he faintly moved with it as he arched and croaked at the further pressure. He retched again as the second parasite’s full body squeezed itself into his mouth in the octopus-like fashion it had emerged from the Ganado in. The corners of Leon’s mouth ached. Further pressure at the spot aching between his legs.

Two more weak little hitching sounds as the parasite pressed against the back of his mouth and then squeezed to follow its arm; his eyes rolled back. Another fist slamming to the ground when his grip on the thing sprang loose. He fell on his back with a thump, collapsing at an uncomprehensible weighty hot daze in his head, once the feel and already-decaying taste of the thing swelling and slipping and pulsing against the surfaces of his mouth had cleared in favor of that same _pressure_ blocking his throat. 

Around it, he could only just barely rasp as the first parasite, too, began to push its body into him. Stretching the space open taut to _burning_ \- his back spasmodically arched deeper; his legs had unconsciously started to twitch further _apart_ into and against of the arms still in the open to create more space less pressure; his eyes rolled back to give in to lack of focus.

_This was how he was gonna die, huh…?_

Another dead, bleak, wry thought. Not entirely here nor there.

The pale burning in his head welled on another hard-pressing push-and-pull of the lower creature driving itself further inside him. A choke around the thing in his throat as he let it pour over - let his back burn all the deeper, let himself come over the assault of the parasite like it was just another absurd thing to watch.

_...Who’d a’ thunk it…?_

* * *

He lay with his eyes glazed by pain and hazed nerves and the tears now in a steady state of _welled_ from the burn in his sinuses at every breath he took. Staring at the dark sky, and the curve of the still free arms of one of the things inside him. One of them was the scythed arm; he was distantly, distantly thankful (dead, bleak, wry) that neither of them had tried using those for their initial contact. Another two held his arms, a sloppy, loose restraining that crossed them at the wrists, just as the other parasite still had him by the legs.

He occasionally choked or twisted, weakly, at further sensation and stirs from inside as the two things continued to sit, and turn, and pulse, inside him

He had stopped fighting shortly after the parasite in his throat had gotten him by the arms. Not because he was averse to fighting, but to save the energy, essentially. If he could get to his gun now, there’d be nothing to shoot. He’d tried to pull at what of the things was still exposed - both of them - and had been met with hell of a lot more pain; the things pressing firm against internal surfaces in order to keep their purchase.

He lay waiting for some kind of opportunity, if far more passively than he cared to admit now. Some kind of change.

A vague _I’ll know a moment when I see it._

_There’s gotta be a moment..._

With regards to urgency, too…

Whatever they were doing, they hadn’t killed him yet.

Whatever they were doing.

They moved often. When the one between his hips moved or lashed or its external arms felt across the floor of the ravine, his spine curved to follow like a tugged-on or trailing lead. Occasionally, it stretched and retracted to inch just a bit further inside, or adjusted the position of one of its tendrils in a way that brushed his prostate again - and he was shocked into a little arc and underwater-muffled moan at the one in his throat.

It was a heavy feeling.

He didn’t know how long they’d been inside him, for whatever their purpose was, at that point. Certainly not making him do anything but hold still for them to slink inside. Certainly not killing him.

But it had been long enough that at the first sign of the pressure of them starting to move _outward_ again - the _tug_ reversing below his torso, the feeling of rising in his throat - felt jarring and uncanny. Almost unsatisfying for the momentary _impossibility_ of it - like watching drops of sweat roll upward.

Still, trembling, he managed to shift to just barely look up, down himself, under his wrists. Swore he saw the ripple of something moving under his shirt. He gagged, and wasn’t sure if it was at that or at another press up out of his throat; he gagged again.

_Helping you along…!_

The upper parasite was the first one to vacate him. A hot, consistent prickling under his lower eyelids intensified as it hit the top of his throat, and he lay back again - shutting his eyes as it squeezed itself up bloblike into his mouth. He spat; wasn’t sure if it was what did the job when it popped free of his mouth and left him spitting and wheezing and coughing at the tendrils finishing their way threading out of his mouth, but he sure would give himself the credit. He shivered first in anticipation of the relief when the body of the second one stretched its entrance back open, barely cinched to still hold it with its position just within the threshold - then in aftershocks and the dragging tingling of arms threading through him behind it as it, too, popped free. Shivering gasps; a feeling of _cold_ and _exposure_ in the unoccupied spaces where the parasites had just been.

However long it had been, they’d been occupying those spaces long enough now that their absence felt suddenly almost _deathly_.

Peacefully-so, but _hollow_.

It kept time away, for a moment where he wasn’t concerned with where the parasites were but the knowledge of where they weren’t, falling right into that feeling of cold like a person coming up for air after submersion in a frozen lake. He rolled himself onto his hands and knees for reclamation of stability - breaking into explosive coughs and wheezing inhales in a bid to _claw_ for his air back. He stayed on all trembling fours steadying the meter of his breath when the coughing subsided and the burn smoothed over. When he was satisfied, he shut his eyes to hold and burn in that level of relief - wiped a layer of thin, slimy blood off his chin with his wrist and hissed through his nose, mildly, at a sting on him brushing the cut he’d forgotten one of the things had given him when it --

...knocked away his…

\-- He tossed his head aside to find his gun again; strings of hair clung askew to his forehead. The shine of fire-and-moon light off his gun seemed brighter than he had when he’d first re-found it. Sharper. He pawed his way over toward it hasty-but-effectively, like an animal. Give-no-fucks.

_Get it._

He stood taking one more long, ragged breath - each knee wobbling twice - before he aimed.

The two creatures blobbed and pulsed and writhed on either side of him - three points in a triangle. They lashed their arms and twisted aimlessly.

Not trying to stop him.

He didn’t care. Wasn’t sure if it was out of lack of desire to take any chances, or out of sheer damn catharsis. Satisfaction.

Between two clips, he fired at one - stacatto shots landing wet - until it _popped_ and sprayed blood and sticky flesh over the stones. Then at the other.

_Burst._

The night felt stiller than any other moment since he’d arrived in the village had, when the echo of the rip through the air from the last shot faded.

No scrapings of steps or movement nearby - he knew it wouldn’t last long, but nonetheless.

Only the faint drag of his own breath and the muffled non-sound, all-feeling of his heart, still pumping hard enough to leave ripples. The minute crack of a nearby torch.

And the anchor of it all in some firm understanding. Part of that came out of graveness. _My first run-in where I get to see what’s gone wrong, here, for what it is, and it overplays its hand._

_Not sure what you can throw at me now that I’ll be shocked by._

(Dead, bleak, wry.)

_Parasites._

He should report this to Hunnigan, maybe, he thought. To keep her abreast of the situation.

...Not that there’d be much she could do with it, from off the field. Heh -- but then again, he probably owed her one after his pass-out earlier…

… --

The night stilled further.

It stopped. Blank.

Leon’s eyes widened.

The parasites had abandoned their hosts to go after _him_ . They had wanted to _switch_ hosts, he’d thought.

They had _gotten inside_ a potential new host. Stayed there long enough that it couldn’t have been for nothing. And yet _left_ . _Voluntarily_.

And, once outside, had gone from hostile to neutral. Ignoring him.

...Because they hadn’t had _need_ to pay him any more mind? Because they’d marked him as a target not for aggression?

\-- Both…?

...His mouth had come to just barely opening. Eyes fixed-yet-unfocused on the spot where he’d been laying while the two parasites had gone about…

_...having their way with him._ He _hated_ that phrasing. But _fuck_ , a hair-tossing shake-out of his head to clear smoke off not an answer, he knew, but a theory…!

His next breath in held still in a moment while temperatures balanced - settled on just-too-warm - and hardened under his skin. Around his heart - constricting the beats.

The theory hung just under it, likewise still, like a lead pendulum on a slim string.

“Hunnigan,” he said. Having half-consciously brought the radio up to his ear and clicked the button. Gone ahead and decided on it after all.

“Leon?”

She sounded mildly surprised.

And he sounded like shit, as he was vaguely aware, when he responded. Sounds with croaking, burnt-sounding edges, leaving a feeling almost like damn _carpet burn_ on the back of his throat.

“ -- Got cut off by a couple of hostiles on my way up from the lake. Let’s say the fight took some pretty strange turns. I think I’m starting to piece together what’s happening here.”

The feeling of _emptiness_ was nullified.

“Plus, it looks like I might have to look forward to some… complications later on in the night. Thanks to the village leader and the two I just had to fight my way past.”

The echo of the feeling of occupation returned. And multiplied.

Re-layering and re-layering and re-layering an already-fresh, bad stain.


End file.
